


My Heart on Fire

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-01 14:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hawke has never met his soulmate, but he imagines that she's from Ferelden, about his age, either a mage or a mage sympathizer, and likes mabari.Fenris might be soulmates with his master, but that doesn't stop him from running away and chasing freedom.They could never have imagined the truth. Hawke's soulmate? A prickly elf from Tevinter. And Fenris' soulmate? Definitely not a magister.A story of miscommunication, mistrust, misunderstandings, and how the course of love never did run smooth.





	1. Bait and Switch

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr.](http://scatteringmyashes.tumblr.com/)

Garrett’s parents are soulmates and one day he, as well as the twins, will marry their soulmates. That’s what they’re told at least. And yes, that includes Carver, who claims that he doesn’t want anything as silly as romance. Bethany is different. She loves the idea of true love. She pulls Garrett into all kinds of silly games, most often making him rescue her from the scary Templars. Her soulmate is sometimes a brave Grey Warden, other times an apostate mage who has long, flowing hair and can pick her up with one arm. 

Considering that Garrett has been chopping wood since he could lift an axe, he isn’t built like what he imagines normal mages are like. That means he can indulge his sister in her fantasies, even if, as they grow older, she stops talking about dreams every time they move from one town to another. It’s hard and it makes it impossible to grow close to anyone, but Garrett pretends he doesn’t care. He knows it’s partly for him too. Carver is a bit bitter, the whole family knows, but he’s also the only child who can’t throw fireballs from his fingertips so sometimes his opinion doesn’t matter quite as much. 

That’s how Garrett sees it, at least. 

When they were little, the siblings liked to ask their parents about colors. They couldn’t see them yet, not until they meet their own soulmates of course, but that didn’t stop them from asking their parents countless questions. Carver decided that blue is his favorite color because that’s what Wardens wear. Bethany flip-flopped from yellow to green to blue then back to yellow before finally settling on silver. Garrett made fun of her for it because it’s like grey, according to their parents, but different. What’s the point of liking a color you can already see? 

She punched him in the shoulder and it didn’t hurt at all, but that didn’t stop Garrett from tackling her and sending her rolling in the grass. They were still kids so he didn’t crush her. That doesn’t stop her from complaining but all Garrett got was an eyeroll from their mother; she knew her children far too well to really be concerned. 

If he tackled Bethany now, he would probably break some of her bones at the very least.

“What do you think your soulmate is going to be like?” Bethany asks one day when they’re older, when they’re making a life for themselves in Lothering just like they’ve made a life for themselves everywhere else. They’re older now, though, old enough for Carver to be a real soldier and for them to know that soulmates don’t always get a happy ending. Especially not apostates.

The entire family has mourned the death of Father for some time. Garrett imagines they always will. 

Garrett shrugs and doesn’t answer, cutting another log. There’s a pile of wood around him, evidence of how long he’s been out there sweating. 

“Aw, come on, brother. You always had an answer for me,” Bethany teases from where she watches. They don’t really need more wood but Carver and Garrett had gotten into an argument and Mother had sent them to different menial chores to distract them before fists had started flying. It’s the same thing she did when they were children and that leaves a strange taste in Garrett’s mouth. 

“Yes, when we were _children._ ” Garrett knows that he can’t really dissuade Bethany from talking about soulmates if she wants. It’s something she’s thought about ever since she was a little girl. Carver never really had much a mind for soulmate talk and Garrett figures he has, more or less, grown out of it. “There are other things to worry about now.”

“So what? You don’t think you’ll ever meet your soulmate?” She presses, frowning. Garrett sighs and takes a moment to wipe some sweat off his forehead. It’s muggy out, just unpleasant enough that he’d rather be sitting at home doing nothing. Then again, he doesn’t particularly like cutting wood even when he’s in a good mood. “I bet she’s beautiful. Tall, because you’re a giant, but elegant.” 

“And I suppose she’s a noblewoman and a mage sympathizer,” Garrett continued with a laugh and a shake of his head. Bethany’s frown grows and he realizes that maybe he’s being a bit unfair, but he’s not in the best of moods. Carver has a way of inspiring that in him. It’s probably a brothers thing. Garrett’s never had enough friends to know if it could be a friend thing too.

There’s a moment of silence, the noise of the forest only broken by the _clunk_ of the axe hitting the wooden stump that Garrett is using to hold logs. They’re about ten minutes from their small home, twenty from the stream, and it’s deceptively clear out. It shouldn’t be so hot or humid, but it is. Garrett doesn’t like it. Even if he’s used to the poor Ferelden weather, he likes to imagine one day he’ll live somewhere nicer. 

“Do you think we’ll ever meet our soulmates?” Bethany asks, so quiet that he thinks he imagined it at first. He pauses and looks at her. She’s not meeting his gaze, focused instead on the ground where a few small wildflowers curl up. 

Garrett sighs and puts the axe down. He walks over to her and pulls his sister into a big, sweaty hug. She immediately begins to protest, pushing against his bulk and yelling at him. “You big oaf! Maker, Garrett, you’re covered in sweat. Ugh!” Even as she elbows him in the stomach, he just laughs.

He puts her down after a moment but still holds onto her shoulders. “Bethany, look at me.” She does and, not for the first time, Garrett finds himself hit by how much like Mother his sister appears. Bethany is far younger, of course, but the similarity is there. He wonders if he’ll look like Father when he’s older. He hopes so. He doesn’t remember much about Father, but he had a warm smile and Mother still thinks of him fondly. 

Garrett wants someone to think about him like that, someday. 

“Bethany, I promise that you will meet your soulmate. And when you do we’re going to be insufferable and tease you constantly. Carver will nag and posture and I’ll threaten to set him on fire if he hurts you.” At her brother’s words, Bethany rolls her eyes. There’s a smile on her face nonetheless. She doesn’t bother to point out that she can, in fact, set people on fire too. It’s dreadfully common in their family, all things considered.

“Ok, but you know you’re going to meet yours too, right? I’m sure she’ll like you, even if you do snore.” Garrett makes a face and Bethany pulls out of his grip. “You do snore, Carver’s told me all about it!” 

“Carver is a lying nug-eater,” Garrett replies, grabbing the axe and attaching it to his belt as he begins to gather wood in his arms. “Now come on, we’re not going to meet our soulmates out here and this wood isn’t going to get back to the house without us.” 

The two of them walk back, teasing each other for all sorts of things. Bethany especially likes to make fun of Garrett for his tendency to brush paint over his nose. He’s done it ever since he was a kid and Father told them about how Ferelden warriors used to put warpaint on their faces to show that they had something to fight for. It’s always a bright color, something to signify that they have found a soulmate. 

Technically Garrett shouldn’t wear it but, well, everyone thought it was cute when he was younger and now it’s just become a habit. 

“What if you meet your soulmate and she thinks you already have one?” Bethany asks as they walk through the forest. Garrett frowns. 

“Well, I’ll just explain the situation to her,” he replies. In all honesty, he’s never thought about it. A soulmate is still such an abstract concept to him that it’s hard to imagine actually meeting her. Bethany laughs, startling a few birds nearby.

“And what is that? That you like to play warrior and look all tough?” Bethany shakes her head and mutters something about men. It’s probably insulting and entirely true. 

Garrett makes a face and shoves her gently with his shoulder. She stumbles a bit and glares at him. He mumbles something and ducks his head, suddenly bashful. Bethany raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms. 

“Oh no you don’t. What did you say?” 

“I don’t need to have _met_ my soulmate to want to fight for her.” 

It’s possibly the most romantic thing Bethany has ever heard her brother say, so after a moment of stunned silence she of course breaks into laughter, slapping her brother on the back. She tells him that it’s cute, romantic, and proceeds to taunt him mercilessly for the rest of the walk back. Garrett didn’t expect anything else. 

When they were children, Carver decided that his favorite color was blue. Bethany always changed her mind but she had a soft spot for silver due to the way Mother’s jewelry caught the light of the sun. Garrett, on the other hand, loved red. That’s the color he paints over his nose, every day no matter what happens, much to the chagrin of his brother. Mother never tells him to stop and, sometimes, Garrett thinks it reminds her of Father. 

Garrett thinks that his sister bleeds red as she dies in their mother’s arms, smashed to death on rocks as the family flees their last home, but he doesn’t know for sure. He hasn’t met his soulmate, after all. 

//

Fenris likes to imagine that he remembers the color red. That’s what color blood is, he knows, and he’s seen plenty of that. Spilled most of it himself. Some of it has been his, cut from his flesh by an enemy’s blade or a magister’s knife. But, because he was a good slave, none of it was ever his master’s. Not unless Danarius cut himself in order to fuel his magic, but he rarely had to resort to those means. No, more often than not he was able to summon a slave to bleed for him. 

Regardless, Fenris imagines that he remembers what red looks like. He doesn’t really know, can’t conjure up any memories, but sometimes when he closes his eyes he thinks he can picture it. Red is always cold to him, frightening almost, something to inspire fear and something that is quickly followed by pain. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. Some nights, long after the Fog Warriors, he’ll stare up at the stars and just think. He thinks about his time with Danarius, he thinks about his time with the Warriors, and he thinks about how his life is now. 

There’s so much blood in every memory that he know that he must have seen red, if just for a moment, somewhere. He just can’t remember. 

He knows he must have seen red because the Maker or the Creators or whoever decides soulmates is cruel and made his soulmate his master. And, like so much of Fenris’ life, that has brought him nothing but pain and nightmares. Even though Danarius is his soulmate, Fenris will never go back. He knows that there are stories, of course, of two people being bound together and being horrible for each other. That sometimes it results in mutual hatred or even death. Being soulmates does not mean you get a happy ending. Still, no matter what the stories say they are never cruel enough to have a slave matched with his master. 

Then again, Fenris is by no means a typical slave and his master was no ordinary magister. That is no boon and Fenris spends many nights, cold and hungry and too anxious to sleep, clutching himself as he stares out into the darkness. Sword across his lap, armor freezing to the touch, he convinces himself that he could not have possibly seen color before, because he would remember it, wouldn’t he? But why would his master lie, why would Danarius resort to calling himself soulmates to a _slave?_

If Fenris has ever seen the color red, he does not remember it. Not really. Sometimes he feels this is a good thing, another traumatic memory lost to time and pain and punishment. Other times he wishes for it. He didn’t get anything else out of his soulmate, he might as well have gotten color. 

He flees from Seheron after the brutal murder of the Fog Warriors at his hands, harried by slavers and mercenaries all the while. Most of them have been sent, in some form or another, by Danarius. Others hear of him, a lyrium ghost, and recognize a slave when they see one. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that doesn’t go away when he rips them to shreds. For all his issues, killing has never been one of them.

The benefit of being a warrior and a bodyguard, Fenris supposes. He’ll take any advantage he can get. Maker knows he needs them. 

That’s why he only hesitates a moment before paying Anso to hire someone else to investigate what is obviously a trap, this rumor that the magister Danarius has stored a series of documents concerning his slaves in a shack in Kirkwall. If it’s true, Fenris might be able to find papers that have his name on it and, in his deepest dreams he thinks, even someone he will recognize as family. He hasn’t quite decided how he’ll find this information out, seeing as he can’t read, but he’s kept enough coin so that he can hire someone if it comes to that. 

But first someone has to draw the slavers out, make them vulnerable so then Fenris can attack, and for that Anso’s contacts have to work.

Fenris must admit, for all the people he was expecting he wasn’t expecting three humans and a dwarf to walk into the small shack. He doesn’t let himself dwell on it, though, and draws his blade and starts cutting slavers down like they’re corn and it’s harvest season. Though Fenris cannot see color, he thinks that the blood spurting from their bodies is rather unlike the way corn fields look in the autumn sunlight. 

He hears fighting continue outside in the alienage and he hears the slave hunter’s leader call for his men. Fenris is not a particularly dramatic person in his mind but, well, he’s from Tevinter whether he likes it or not. One does not spend the entirety of their life around magisters without picking up a bit of flare for the theatric. 

“Your men are dead,” Fenris calls out, stepping forward as the lifeless body of one of the slavers falls in front of him. “And your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can.” He glares at the slaver and he rips the man’s heart out of his chest. Some of the blood gets on his face and chest. 

It doesn’t matter. Danarius isn’t there but he might have fled to his mansion and he needs to talk to these strangers first, see if they will help him. Fenris has no qualms about going and killing his master but he would not begrudge the support.

Besides, it isn’t every day that someone decides to kill their soulmate. 

//

This is entire matter goes from frustrating and dangerous to the best decision of Hawke’s life as he looks up and sees a beautiful, deadly elf with white tattoos over his body, a sword almost as tall as him strapped to his back. His skin is brown and his armor is silver and Hawke realizes that he can see color right as the elf looks him straight in the eyes and begins apologizing. 

He stops, Hawke assumes, because he can see color. 

Hawke has spent his whole life waiting for this moment and he realizes three things as he takes in his soulmate. 

First, the elf is absolutely beautiful. He is shorter than Hawke, slim, but there is no question of the strength in his body. Hawke can recognize color because of what his parents had taught him, but he still struggles to come up with what to use to describe the elf’s eyes. Green seems too simple. Emerald is too bright. Maybe Varric can help, Hawke thinks before realizing that he doesn’t know if Varric has met his soulmate. 

There are tattoos up and down the elf’s body, disappearing down his throat and up his arms and Hawke wants to trace them with his fingers. He wants to touch them, see if they light up when the elf isn’t trying to kill someone. Hawke wants to know if they taste different than the rest of the elf’s brown skin, if they extend all over his body. This is probably the worst time to appreciate someone physically, but Hawke can't help it. Besides, this is his _soulmate._ He figures he has a bit of leeway.

Second, they are both covered in blood. Hawke had gotten in the spray of someone’s arteries bursting thanks to Varric’s arrows and he’ll have to take a long bath later unless he wants Gamlen to complain even more about his presence. The elf, similarly, has blood all over his chest but it’s also dripping from his forearm. If it weren’t for that, Hawke would be convinced that he was going crazy because there’s no way that someone can just shove their hand into another person’s chest and rip their heart out.

It’s utterly terrifying and Hawke finds himself a little bit in love. 

Third, the look on the elf’s face is not one of someone who has met his soulmate. At least, not what Hawke imagined all those years ago, when he was young and talking about his future with Bethany. That is the look of someone who has been trapped, less so a man backed into a corner but a feral cat, and Hawke hates himself a little for thinking that but it’s the first thought to come to mind. 

“What have you done to me, _mage?_ ” Hawke’s soulmate hisses, stepping forward. Hawke is so surprised that he doesn’t even try to defend himself, just stands there until Carver gets between him and the stranger. “Get out of my way.” 

“No,” Carver replies, sword at the ready. Even though his sword is about as tall as the elf, it doesn’t seem like the elf is going to back down and the last thing Hawke needs is his brother to start fighting with his soulmate. 

“C-Carver,” Hawke stammers, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“What?” Carver turns his head just enough and takes in the expression on Hawke’s face, the way he’s standing, everything about his older brother. Hawke can tell the very moment Carver realizes what just happened. “Maker…” Varric and Aveline are watching, more than a little confused, but it slowly dawns on them as well. 

“Well, Hawke, I guess this job really did pan out,” Varric jokes, hoisting Bianca in a much less aggressive manner despite the fact that Hawke’s soulmate still looks like he wants answers and it willing to fight to get them.

Hawke wants some too, but he doesn’t know the best way to ask for everything he wants. He wants -- no, he _needs_ to know everything about his soulmate. Why is he here? What are those tattoos? Where did he learn to kill someone with his bare fists? Can Hawke kiss him? 

_What is his name?_ Hawke realizes he doesn’t even know that and he blushes, bringing up a hand and running it through his unruly black hair. 

“I -- I’m Garrett Hawke. That’s Carver, my brother. I -- ah -- you are--” In the best of times, Hawke isn’t particularly articulate and he thinks that the circumstances means he can be excused for even less elegance than usual. Not if the snort Carver lets out means anything, but still. 

It isn’t every day you meet your soulmate.

“... My name is Fenris. I do not know what blood magic you have used, mage, but it will not fool me.” Fenris steps back, eyes narrowing, and it takes Hawke a moment to realize what he was just accused of. 

“Hey, wait, I don’t -- I’m not a blood mage! Why do you think I am?” He wracks his brain for something that might have indicated that. “Is -- is it the paint? That’s a Fereldan thing. One hundred percent not blood magic, promise.” He doesn’t even get a single reaction from his soulmate -- from Fenris -- and Hawke finds his heart dropping out of his stomach. Surely -- surely his soulmate doesn’t hate him because he’s a mage? Hawke knows that mages aren’t exactly loved but… Well, he always imagined that the first meeting would go a lot smoother, that’s all.

Of course, despite knowing his attraction to essentially anyone with a nice smile and a sharp wit, Hawke always imagined his soulmate was a woman, so maybe it’s not all that surprising that things aren’t how he pictured. 

The sneer on Fenris’ face doesn’t really make Hawke feel all that much better, though. 

“I do not care who you are.” Then his expression shifts. For a moment it looks almost apologetic, but it’s covered quickly by practiced apathy. Hawke recognizes it because he’s seen the very same expression on Carver’s face many times. “I… apologize. Thank you for your assistance. I did not realize Anso would hire such a…” Fenris’ eyes linger on Hawke’s face before snapping away to regard the rest of the group. “A capable band. If you wish to leave, I will not begrudge you that and will still reward you. But I could use your assistance.” 

“What do you need?” Hawke asks without hesitation. He can practically feel Carver’s incredulous look. 

“My master is in the city. I believe that he has retreated to his mansion in Hightown. If you wish to help me kill him, I will be in your debt.” Fenris hesitates and Hawke can see that this is hard for him to say. He wonders at who could possibly call a strong, deadly warrior like Fenris theirs. It would be a great folly; Fenris clearly is not a creature or a piece of furniture, but a living being that can only be appreciated fully when free.

Ok, maybe Hawke has been listening to too much of Varric’s poetry lately, but from what little he knows about Fenris… The elf should not have a master. 

“Of course, if you wish to part ways now, I will reward you as promised and bother you no more.” There’s something in Fenris’ voice that makes it sound like he almost wants them to choose that option, but again his eyes flicker to Hawke. For a moment, just a split second that Hawke almost misses, there’s curiosity. 

Not just curiosity, but longing. As if Hawke has something that Fenris has missed for a very long time. 

“We’ll help,” Hawke replies, looking back at his companions. They all nod, though Carver still seems on edge. “Lead the way, Fenris.” 

His answer seems to shock Fenris, as if he genuinely thought they wouldn’t want to help him, but Fenris nods as well and motions for them to follow him. He’s silent as they walk through the dirty streets and make their way to Hightown. They end up in front of a mansion that Hawke has passed before, though it looks deserted. 

“He is inside. There will be traps and I am certain he will be prepared.” Fenris hesitates, not looking at Hawke or any of the others. “I only ask that, when we find him, you allow me to kill him.” There’s something in Fenris’ voice that Hawke can’t quite understand, but he nods and agrees. And with that, Fenris kicks the front door down and marches inside, shouting at the top of his lungs. Varric winces and mutters something about losing surprise. Hawke is too busy taking his staff out and getting ready. 

There’s too many questions and not enough answers, especially since they fight through hordes of demons and reanimated corpses and find no one else. Danarius, Fenris’ master, is nowhere to be found and Hawke can’t help but find himself a bit relieved. He asks, later, outside the mansion if Fenris will stay. For a moment, there’s silence and Hawke wonders if he’s about to lose his soulmate just as soon as they’ve found each other. Then again, Fenris doesn’t seem inclined to acknowledge that they are connected, so maybe it’s for the best. Hawke doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to live with a soulmate who hates him, but no one has ever told him what to do if your other half refuses to acknowledge you.

“I… will stay. I am tired of running. If Danarius wants these markings back, he will have to find me.” Fenris hesitates before pulling a coin purse out and emptying it out into his hand. There is more blood on his gauntlets and Hawke wonders how long they take to clean. Despite the fact that they are sharp and deadly weapons in their own rights, Fenris seems to have no difficulty using them and hands Hawke all the money in his purse. 

“No, I can’t accept this,” Hawke immediately says. He can sense the eye roll from Carver but, thankfully, nothing is said. “You can repay me in other ways.” Fenris’ eyebrows shoot up and Hawke realizes what that sounded like. “No, Maker, I meant you can go on jobs with me. We could always use more warriors.” It’s a bloody lie; Aveline and Carver are more than enough at any given time. But thankfully neither of them argue. 

The answer seems to calm Fenris as well. He nods slowly and takes his money back. He frowns and his eyes land on the brush of red over Hawke’s nose. There are questions in Fenris’ eyes but he doesn’t ask them. 

“I will be here when you need me, Hawke.” With that, Fenris turns and goes into what used to be his master’s mansion. There’s a long moment of silence.

“Well shit, Hawke. You sure know how to pick them,” Varric says, raising an eyebrow at the older of the two Hawkes. Carver nudges his brother in the back, silently asking if he’ll be ok. Even though the two rarely see eye-to-eye, Carver knows how important soulmates have been for Garrett. Ever since they were little kids, Hawke wouldn’t shut up about them.

Of course, in his stories, he always ended up marrying a beautiful Fereldan woman and not a spike-covered former slave.

“Mother will want to know,” Hawke says hoarsely, not really responding to anyone. He tenses when a hand rests on his shoulder but it’s just Aveline. She squeezes and Hawke remembers how she admitted, on the boat ride to Kirkwall, that she hadn’t married her soulmate. That she had decided it wasn’t worth waiting around for someone she might never meet because she might die any day.

She had been happy without her soulmate. Hawke can’t imagine feeling the same.

“Come on, let’s go.” He can think more about this later.


	2. Act I

Fenris doesn’t know what to make of the strange group of people he’s found himself allied with. He can’t quite call them friends -- he doesn’t think he will ever have friends -- but he knows that this is more of _something_ than he’s ever had before. Varric continually invites him to drinks even if it takes about three weeks before Fenris actually accepts. Isabela flirts with him but doesn’t seem at all offended by Fenris’ gruff replies. The look on her face when he finally joked back was only the second best part; the fact that she almost walked off the pier and into the ocean was the first. 

Aveline is similar to Fenris and he appreciates her simple, no-nonsense attitude even as the others poke fun at her for it. Carver is also easy to understand, in that Fenris almost instantly dislikes him but also knows how important he is for Garrett. For some reason Carver seems to actually like the blood mage but, well, Fenris supposes that everyone has their flaws. Carver’s are just immediately apparent.

The three mages of the group are… not exactly what Fenris would call ideal, but as long as the blood mage stays away from him and the other mage doesn’t touch him, he has no issue fighting alongside them. He will defend them, yes, and he will not turn them into the Templars, but that is about as far as his goodwill goes. It does not help that Anders seems to enjoy antagonizing him, insisting that Fenris should understand the plight of the mages.

“Where I am from, the only plight mages face are what robes to wear and which slave to kill that day,” Fenris finally says one day, eyes narrowing as he glares at Anders. That seems to take the argument out of him for a moment, long enough for Hawke to let out an awkward chuckle and change the subject. 

Hawke. That is a human that Fenris does not understand. He doesn’t understand why a random stranger would pretend to be his soulmate and he doesn’t understand why Hawke never mentions it. Beyond a few looks and the way Hawke seems to hesitate every time he refers to Fenris as his companion, they might as well not be soulmates at all. It is utterly bizarre and a change from how Danarius treated him, insisting on all manner of… things. 

Then again, Hawke and Fenris are not soulmates. They never will be. Whatever the mage has done to Fenris to make him see color, it must be blood magic of some kind. There is simply no other explanation. Even if Hawke is never seen using blood magic any other time, not even when the group was ambushed on the Wounded Coast and Varric knocked out by an unlucky blow to the head. 

Everything Fenris sees and hears tells him that Garrett Hawke is not a blood mage, but there is no other explanation for the colors. The only other possibility is that he _is_ soulmates with Hawke, that Danarius lied for years…

 _No,_ Fenris thinks to himself, _that cannot be possible._ Why would Danarius lie, after all? Why would he add just one more way to control Fenris when he had enough already? If it weren’t for the events on Seheron, Fenris knows he would have remained a slave, unaware anything else existed.

But the point remains that he cannot be soulmates with Garrett Hawke because that’s not possible. It just isn’t. 

_You must ignore the mage,_ Fenris reminds himself, pretending not to see the looks Hawke gives him when he thinks Fenris isn’t looking. Pretending not to see color and pretending that everything isn’t new and exciting and breathtaking.

Because Fenris has no way of stopping it and he can only hope that this magic does not begin to affect him in any other ways. 

“What is that stripe across your nose supposed to be anyway?” Isabela asks one day while they are drinking in the Hanged Man. Fenris is nursing his third or fourth mug which puts him below the others. He doesn’t know how much a tolerance Isabela or Varric have, but he wouldn’t fancy a drinking contest against either. 

On the other hand, Hawke and Merrill both look like they’re about to pass out at any moment. Maybe it’s a bit unfair to call Hawke a lightweight, since he is surrounded by empty tankards of the swill Corff claims is ale, but still. The night is young. 

“It’s a Fereldan custom,” Hawke explains. He waves around what is his ninth mug, spilling some on his brother who scowls and gives him a look. “Warriors would… ah, what’s the word? Right, yes, they would paint their faces. With -- with color. It’s _symbolic._ ” That doesn’t really answer Isabela’s question and Fenris finds himself intrigued as well. Not enough to ask himself, though, and he’s thankful that Isabela keeps pushing. 

“Symbolic of what? Is it something all men do? I would have thought that more of the refugees would have them,” Isabela replies, taking a drink of her own. Fenris doesn’t even want to know how much she’s had. His head practically aches for her impending hangover, unless she’s immune to them. Which, frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

“No, my brother is just stupid,” Carver interrupts before Hawke can get a word in. “It’s something people do when they meet their -- their soulmates.” If Fenris wasn’t paying attention, he would have missed the slight trip of speech and if he wasn’t already acquainted with Carver, he would have ignored it. But as it is, Fenris finds himself sinking a little into his seat and raising his mug to hide his face. 

Thankfully, no one is as bold as to look at him, but Aveline shifts uncomfortably in her seat and the side of the table with Hawke and Varric seems to grow a little more tense. Isabela, unfortunately, notices it and raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh? So Hawke, who’s the lucky girl?” There’s no answer, though Hawke taking a deep drink matching Fenris’ own is probably an answer in of itself. Isabela cackles. “Or man. You know, I can give you advice. I’m sure Anders has a few of his own. Do you still do that electricity thing?” It’s almost satisfying to see Anders choke on his watered down ale. 

It’s certainly better than the bright bush that erupts over Hawke’s face, matching in intensity and hue to the red paint that he’s once again smeared over his nose. Fenris stares. He remembers the color red on his gauntlets, the blood dripping down the silver metal and staining his skin. It happens every fight but Fenris thinks he’ll never forget the first time he saw blood in its full appearance, its full shade right there for his eyes to see. 

No, not his first time -- he has to have seen red before. Danarius is his soulmate, after all, even if the brands were stopping him from seeing color for so long. 

_Yet another thing magic has spoiled._ Fenris can’t even enjoy color now, too paranoid for what will come next to lose himself in the sensation.

“Come on,” Isabela continues, leaning forward just a little. “You can’t keep something like that secret. When are we going to meet them? Oh! Are they too young? Is Hawke a cradle-robber?” There’s a quick look between Hawke and Varric that Fenris can’t read but he can guess what it’s about. Mostly because Varric then launches himself into a story about the latest adventures on the Wounded Coast involving about thirty more Tal-Vashoth than were actually present. 

It’s probably the most obvious change of topic that Fenris has seen but Isabela accepts it after a few minutes of Varric talking. 

Fenris likes to think he knows what it means that Hawke doesn’t immediately claim Fenris as his own, as his Maker-given soulmate, but he doesn’t. He convinces himself that it doesn’t matter because he has no intention of accepting Hawke as a new master. Magic is no boon and blood magic… Well, that is even worse. 

It isn’t until the morning, lurking through the decrepit mansion and trying to summon enough energy to venture forth to get food, that Fenris realizes that Hawke was already wearing the paint when they met. That, if Carver is to be believed, that means Hawke had already met his soulmate before he even knew Fenris. 

He finds that thinking about it too much gives him a headache, so he decides not to worry about it. If Hawke tries to enslave him, if Hawke fancies himself the new master of a lyrium-imbued slave, then all Hawke will get is a hand crushing his heart. 

//

Not thinking about the fact that his soulmate is currently squatting in his ex-master’s old mansion in Hightown isn’t the best solution Hawke has come up with for a problem, but it’s the only one he has so he makes do with it. It’s either that or barge into the aforementioned mansion and demand answers, demand to know why Fenris thinks that this is blood magic and what in Thedas can Hawke do to convince him otherwise. Hawke knows he’s not the best with people, but he’s smart enough to know that won’t end well. 

So he remains quiet -- not pining, no, despite what Carver might think -- and keeps his feelings to himself. Carver is eternally complaining and Hawke is quite sure that his mother is five seconds from marching up the road and meeting Fenris herself, but besides that things are fine. 

Aveline pities him and even Varric seems unable to joke about it, but at least Isabela hasn’t figured it out yet, so Hawke considers that a blessing. 

Sort of. He’d rather his soulmate acknowledge him besides grunts and nods. 

“Want to come kill some slavers with me?” Hawke asks, as if it’s even a real question. He doesn’t bother knocking when he comes to visit Fenris. The entire group has learned the hard way that Fenris will not answer the door, preferring to hide away as if he doesn’t live there at all. If it weren’t for the fact that some of the ruined furniture and dead bodies has been moved away -- though not disposed of entirely -- then he might as well not live there. He really is a ghost and it frightens Hawke, really, to imagine why Fenris feels he has to live like this. 

Fenris just nods, adjusts his armor a little, and grabs his sword. It’s always near him and Hawke has never seen Fenris without his armor. Frankly, Hawke wouldn’t be surprised if Fenris sleeps in his armor. 

The look of acceptance on Fenris’ face and -- well, it’s not _eagerness_ by any definition or stretch of the imagination, but it’s close -- _something_ is soon replaced by disgust as he realizes that Hawke has chosen Merrill as the second mage. Isabela winks but her presence does little to stop Fenris’ hands from twitching, as if he considered, for a moment, ridding the world of one more blood mage.

Hawke isn’t sure how to feel about Merrill, sometimes. She’s a blood mage who could kill him and half the city given five minutes and a corpse but she also cried when Anders talked about how the starving Darktown residents sometimes kill stray kittens, so it’s safe to say that she has no plans to dominate Kirkwall anytime soon. Growing up and hearing tales of blood mages, Merrill is about the furthest from what Hawke expects. He imagines that Fenris doesn’t care how sensitive and kind Merrill is, though.

The way Fenris’ eye literally twitches just confirms that suspicion. 

“It’s just a quick walk around the Wounded Coast, but we might be going up Sundermount so I brought Merrill along. Hope that’s ok,” Hawke says, feeling a bit put-out. Sometimes he can convince Fenris to make small talk, see how Fenris is settling in. But with Merrill there, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. 

“Oh, cheer up,” Isabela says as they start walking, Fenris trailing behind the rest of them. “He’ll come around. Besides, he doesn’t hate you.” Hawke chances a glance backwards. Fenris currently has a look on his face that would not be out of place on someone who’s stepping in nug shit. “Well, he doesn’t _really_ hate you. Maybe a little. But he’s much more fun than I thought.” Isabela adopts a wicked grin and, before Hawke can stop her, turns around and grins at Fenris. “White.” 

“No.” Fenris is completely deadpan and Hawke finds himself lost. “And as I have said before, this game is pointless if you cannot see color.” 

“But you can,” Isabela points out. Merrill stops walking, a few feet ahead having been distracted. She looks back, now, and looks at Hawke in confusion. It’s something she does, trying to get him to explain strange human things to her. This time, though, he’s just as confused. 

“You don’t know that.” There’s a moment of silence as Isabela and Fenris exchange looks. Eventually, Fenris huffs and looks away. “Fine. But I could be lying to you.” 

“That would defeat the point of the game.” Isabela’s grin grows. “Besides, that wouldn’t be fun.” Fenris seems like he toys with an answer but instead he rolls his eyes, rolls his shoulders, and keeps walking.

“We should move on.” He doesn’t so much as glance in Hawke’s direction the rest of the way to the coast. 

Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about freezing a raging, axe-wielding slaver in place right before Fenris shatters them into a million small pieces. Hawke likes to think they work well as a team and he can’t help but adopt a goofy grin as Fenris nods his acknowledgement before going off to kill more people. It probably says a lot about Hawke that he finds Fenris’ ability to kill men a foot taller than him sexy. 

Unfortunately for Hawke, Isabela notices. 

“So, Fenris,” she begins as Hawke loots the bodies. He mentally despairs, knowing that any sentence said in that tone of voice promises plenty of embarrassment for someone else in the party. Seeing as Anders and Aveline aren’t there, Hawke is Isabela’s natural target. “When did you learn to use a sword?”

“I… A very long time ago,” Fenris replies, eyes glancing back and forth. “Why?” 

“Oh, just curious.” Isabela leans back against part of the cliff, cleaning her daggers off. Merrill is listening in, constantly trying to understand people better. If she’s hoping to be more normal, she’s in the wrong group and really needs new friends.

Then again, sometimes Hawke thinks he needs new friends and he’s the sorry bastard who brought them all together.

“You handle it very well. Are there other… weapons you know how to handle?” Hawke almost stabs himself taking a dagger off of a dead body. He’s fortunate Fenris isn’t paying attention and prays to the Maker that Isabela doesn’t bring it up later. 

“I can use almost all weapons,” Fenris replies, either not picking up on the innuendo or purposefully ignoring it. Hawke isn’t sure which would be better. “I prefer larger ones. More for me to swing and hold onto.” Hawke’s previous hesitation disappears as he decides that he would love for this conversation to end immediately or for a hole in the ground to open up and engulf him entirely. Either would work for him.

Instead, he pretends to focus rather hard on removing a speck of blood from the aforementioned dagger. Seeing color has made it much easier to take care of things like weapons and clothes. It’s easier to see bloodstains when things aren’t just the same monochromatic color.

“Size isn’t everything,” Fenris continues, kicking at the ground. “But most people do not expect an elf to wield such hefty weapons. I enjoy defying expectations.” 

“In my clan, our warriors use swords and shields like Aveline. You’d be very impressive there, Fenris,” Merrill cuts in. Fenris shrugs but doesn’t say anything rude, which is practically him being nice. He always is in a good mood after killing slavers.

Hawke straightens up and holds the dagger out to Isabela. It’s better than one of the ones she’s got now and she trades it out with a smile. She kisses him on the cheek, about as chaste as she probably can get, and winks. 

“Thanks, Hawke. You know the way to a girl’s heart.” Her words draw a chuckle out of him.

“Deadly weapons?” He questions. 

“But of course.” Merrill lets out a loud gasp, drawing three pairs of eyes on her. She’s dropped her staff, hands covering her mouth. 

“In my clan, giving someone a ceremonial dagger means you believe they’re your soulmate. Are you and Isabela soulmates?” She asks. There’s a moment of silence before Hawke and Isabela both burst out laughing, trading looks even as they have trouble standing up from the amount of shaking they’re doing. Fenris finds it humorous as well, a soft chuckle escaping him. It’s barely audible above the mad cackling coming from Isabela and the hearty laughter bellowing out of Hawke’s own chest, but he can still hear it. 

Fenris’ laughter is probably the most amazing sound Hawke has ever heard and he makes it a personal quest to hear it more often. This is, he realizes, the first time he’s ever heard Fenris laugh and that’s a damn shame.

“Oh, sorry, was I not supposed to ask?” Merrill rubs the back of her head. “I’m still learning all of your human customs. There’s just -- there’s so many!” She exclaims. 

“They laugh because you’re wrong,” Fenris tells her. Merrill blushes, red flowing to her cheeks. Not a month ago, Hawke wouldn’t have been able to notice. Now, though, it’s as if someone has smeared paint all over her with how bright she is. 

That’s what keeps Hawke going when he feels all attempts at knowing Fenris are failing. Not literally the sight of Merrill blushing, but the way the sunlight glistens off the teal ocean and the way the dark green grass buffets in the wind on Sundermount. The fact that Hawke can tell the difference between a lyrium and health potion at sight, not relying on little labels or different bottle shapes. How he doesn’t have to read the etching on coins to know if he’s handing over a silver or gold piece.

The fact that he feels like he’s actually earned the stripe across his nose. 

Because he has a soulmate. He has a soulmate even if that soulmate is not in the form of a tall, beautiful noblewoman with more than one sizeable endowment as Varric might say. Sure, Hawke never thought that he’d end up with a former slave who swings around a sword as tall as he is like it’s made of paper, but that’s how soulmates work. You get someone completely unexpected and it works. 

Sometimes you just have to fight for it, that’s all. Hawke’s willing to fight. He always has been. 

//

After Aveline, Varric, and Carver, the next to figure it out is actually Anders which is somehow more embarrassing than if Isabela had discovered the truth. Hawke is there when he discovers it, and Anders’ realization is less a flash of lighting and more a slow trickle before a downpour. Fenris, technically, is there as well but he’s busy arguing with Carver over the benefits of axes over mauls. It is possibly the most warrior conversation Hawke has ever heard and, for a moment, he regrets not bringing Aveline on that particular day.

Three warriors, though, would be a little much. 

“I don’t know why you bring him along,” Anders mumbles, glancing back at Carver and Fenris. Hawke shrugs, not really able to explain that it’s because he hopes that the more Fenris gets to know him, the more likely Fenris is to accept the fact they’re soulmates. “He hates people like us. He’ll just as likely throw us to the Templars as he is to scowl at one of Isabela’s jokes.”

“They’re not that bad of jokes,” Hawke replies. He self-consciously rubs at the paint on his nose. Gamlen keeps taunting him about it since, as far as he knows, Hawke hasn’t actually met his soulmate. Mother is a bit better about it, but she’s just concerned as to why Hawke hasn’t brought around his paramore yet. 

The fact that his soulmate is not a beautiful, charming Ferelden woman and is actually a spiky elf has something to do with it. 

“Do you seriously trust him?” Anders asks.

“Yes.” Hawke is firm in his conviction. It brooks no room for argument. Anders raises an eyebrow and, again, looks back at Carver and Fenris. They’ve drawn their weapons and are now comparing… hilts? Pommels? Hawke isn’t sure. “Fenris is a better man that you let him be. If you got to know him--” 

“I don’t want to get to know him,” Anders mumbles, “And I don’t see why you do.” Hawke shrugs and glances at the sparkling water that pushes against the coastline down below. It’s a particularly nice day, or at least as nice as it gets in Kirkwall. The blues mingle with white light, almost blinding and reminding Hawke of the way Fenris looks when he uses the brands of lyrium. Even though Hawke knows Fenris hates them, he can’t help but find them beautiful. 

The gasp that Anders lets out breaks Hawke out of his thoughts. He focuses back on his friend and sees a wide-eyed look that wouldn’t be out of place on a child being told that their name day and Satinalia were being celebrated twice that year. Except, rather than delight, Anders was shocked. 

“No -- you and -- _no,_ ” he stammered, coming to a stop. Hawke blushed and nodded. “How -- but you two don’t act like it at all,” Anders pointed out. That was perhaps the _one_ part that Hawke didn’t want to talk about. It wasn’t like he was hiding being soulmates with Fenris. He just could sense that it would be unwise to bring it up at every possible moment. 

 

“Yes, let’s definitely talk more about that,” Hawke replied, waving behind him at where Carver and Fenris were thankfully unaware of the conversation going on in front of them. “It’s not like they can hear us.” Anders apologized and kept moving before anyone noticed he had stopped. “I… we found out when we met but he thinks it’s fake.”

“How can he --”

“He thinks I’m using blood magic to let him see color.” Once again, Anders stopped walking. 

“Maker’s breath, that -- Hawke! You cannot seriously --” Anders cuts himself off, though he doesn’t look happy about it, as Fenris and Carver pass the two mages. Carver takes a glance at Hawke’s face and seems to instantly know what they had been talking about. At least, he lets out a low groan and keeps walking, shaking his head and mumbling about brothers. Then again, that is his default state of being. 

Fenris eyes the two warily. Hawke is a bit dismayed that, despite everything, Fenris still treats him with such caution but he knows that there is a lot in Fenris’ past that still had yet to come to light. It might never be revealed, which Hawke is… not okay with, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it. 

Hawke coughs and nudges Anders. That earns him a glare from Anders, who probably thinks that he should demand answers from Fenris right then and there, but Hawke would rather the earth swallow him up than have that conversation in front of Carver. 

“What are you looking at?” Anders asks Fenris, choosing to take his ire out on an… well, Fenris isn’t really an innocent party in the matter, but Hawke really doesn’t need someone to try to fight his battles. 

“Nothing,” Fenris snaps, crossing his arms, “Except for two mages who keep gossiping like fishwives in Lowtown.” 

“Hey,” Hawke protests, “I am at least a dockworker. Look at these arms.” He flexes to make his point, but it’s a bit hard to see the effort of years of lifting wood and helping out around the farm through the robes. Anders and Fenris have startlingly similar looks on their faces and that’s about when Hawke decides it’s best to just cut his losses while he can. 

He chases after Carver and it’s about then that the party runs into a group of shades and an actual abomination, all determined to rip them to shreds. It’s a great distraction from talking about problems, but unfortunately nothing nearly so fortuitous happens on the way back. To make matters better, Fenris walks a great distance behind the main party while Anders and Carver bicker about one thing or another. 

Hawke, for the most part, stays out of the conversation. He’d rather not get into another fight with Carver since he’s already promised the silent treatment as it is. Anders, too, is a good friend but some of his beliefs… well, they aren’t wrong but he comes across strong and Hawke understands why it’s off-putting to some of their companions.

Ok, most of them. All of them except Merrill. But still, while he may support Anders, that doesn’t mean he wants to make expeditions utterly miserable for everyone involved. 

“So you don’t think your brother deserves happiness with his soulmate?” Anders says, forcing Hawke’s attention onto the two. Carver purses his lips but answers before Hawke can tell him it’s fine, he doesn’t need to do this.

“I think that my brother would have happiness if there was less fear surrounding mages.” It’s probably the nicest thing Carver has said about Hawke in the last few years. That doesn’t make it any less embarrassing to be the topic of Ander’s arguments about mage rights any better. “And that could happen if there weren’t mages running around using blood magic and being possessed by demons.” 

“Your family is living proof that mages can live peacefully among the rest of the world without turning to blood magic!” Anders practically shouts. It looks like he’s five seconds from just tackling Carver and trying to smack sense into him which, being a method Hawke has tried many times in the past, is certain not to work. Not only would Carver be able to crush Anders by sitting on him, but Carver’s skull is too thick to get anything through to it without much more delicate work.

Of course, it’s then that Fenris decides he wants to catch up with the group and start talking. 

“Not all mages turn to blood magic. That is true. But the ones who do -- how can we know who will and who won’t? The Circles are necessary to keep the peace,” he says. Hawke might disagree fundamentally with almost everything he just said, but his voice is still one of the best sounds Hawke has had the pleasure of hearing. 

“Guys --” Hawke tries to cut the argument off before it can start, but Anders is ready to fight. Before Hawke so much has the chance to sneeze, Anders and Fenris are snapping at each other to the point where even Carver has taken a back seat. 

Almost subconsciously, the two brothers drop back and let Anders and Fenris fight it out ahead of them. Carver lets out a sigh. 

“You sure know how to pick them,” he mutters. 

“I didn’t pick him,” Hawke replies. He realizes how that sounds a moment later and shakes his head. “Maker… Carver, you know how it works. It just happens and it… it works out.”

“And what if this doesn’t? What if he turns you into the Templars? People will do anything for enough coin.” Carver crosses his arms, glaring at Fenris’ back. “I don’t trust him.” 

“He won’t do that.” Hawke sighs and rubs at his nose. “I trust him. You should trust me.” Carver grumbles but he doesn’t say anything else. It’s nice to know he cares, even if he shows it in… unusual ways. 

Hawke’s pretty sure Fenris won’t turn him into the Templars, though. Like, ninety percent sure. A strong ninety. 

He watches Fenris argue with Anders and wonders, just for a second, what he’ll do if it’s always like this. If Fenris never relaxes around mages and never trusts him, if Fenris is always argumentative about mage rights and defensive over his history. If there’s nothing down that road but pain and stress. 

There’s stories, of course, about people who break away from their soulmates because they were miserable with them. Instead they find happiness with other people who have lost their soulmates or can’t be with them. Hawke supposes that’s always an option, but… he wants to love Fenris. He wants to fall in love with him and get to know him. He wants to make Fenris laugh like Isabela did the other day, wants to make Fenris feel comfortable and safe. If not as a lover, then at least as a friend. Hawke can’t imagine that an escaped slave has had many friends. 

Hell, as an apostate Hawke hasn’t had many either.


	3. Act II

“I heard about your brother.” Fenris seems more awkward than usual. He mostly comes off as standoffish, angry at bad times and sarcastic the rest, but he’s rarely _awkward._ But then again, he is rarely found standing outside of Gamlen’s hovel, kicking at the dirt on the ground and looking like he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. “I… came to give you my condolences. I know we did not get along all the time, but he was a good warrior and he will be missed.” 

Hawke has spent the last few weeks alternatively consoling his mother and organizing matters with Varric. The fortunates of his surviving family seem to be on the rise, but it’s all a bit hollow with Carver gone. Hawke knows that he might not have seem to get along with him, but after Father and especially after Bethany… Well, sometimes Hawke wonders what the point was, leaving Ferelden only to find more loss in Kirkwall. 

His friends have tried to help, in all their little ways. Merrill came and talked to him for a few hours, just sipping at tea and taking his mind off of everything. She gets along quite well with Mother, so her visit had the added benefit of distracting her from her tears. Hawke thinks Mother is taking it harder than she even took Bethany’s death, but then again there wasn’t really time to mourn that one. 

Not like there should have been. 

Isabela, who still hasn’t gotten an answer out of anyone over who Hawke’s soulmate is, offered to take him to the Blooming Rose. Failing that, the two got roaring drunk in the Hanged Man. Varric had joined in and paid for Hawke -- it was clear that he felt guilty over the matter, blaming himself. Hawke had talked to him about it and came to the conclusion that it was the sort of thing that would take time to work out, that no matter of words could help.

Anders might be the only person who feels as much misplaced guilt as Varric does. If he had been there, then maybe he could have saved Carver. He was a Grey Warden, he can help people who suffer the Blight. But Hawke absolved him of that guilt, telling him that it was out of his control. If anything, it was Hawke’s fault for bringing Merrill instead, taking Anders’ distaste for the Deep Roads into account. Hawke isn’t sure that their conversation helped Anders at all -- Maker, he knows that Varric is giving him more of the cut from the expedition than he actually deserves -- but he tried. 

Aveline had provided a solid presence and was the only person Hawke had opened up enough in front of about it all. He felt safe crying in front of her, admitting that it hurt, that Carver’s death felt like a personal failure just like Bethany’s had. There was something cathartic about that conversation. Aveline was also the only person besides Hawke who had been present for the death of both Bethany and Carver. 

There is definitely something symbolic there. 

“Thanks,” Hawke tells Fenris, sagging a little against the doorframe. “If you want to come in, I’ve got some tea.” Fenris nods, wipes his feet on the dirty mat outside the door, and enters the small hovel. “Mother and Gamlen are out. I think she’s trying to get the estate back.” That’s the only good thing about the trip. With the money, it’s possible that Mother will be in a safe place. Well, safer. Kirkwall was supposed to be safer than Ferelden, after all. 

Hawke puts on a kettle and soon the two of them are sitting at the little table, cups of fresh tea resting untouched in front of them. Belatedly, Hawke realizes that this is the first time the two of them have been alone. 

_In a room with my soulmate and all we can do is stare at each other. Great._ Hawke sips at the tea and winces a bit at the taste. It’s more than a little bitter. He’s always been more of a coffee fellow, personally. 

“How are you?” Hawke asks, unsure of what else he can ask. He doesn’t really want to talk about himself or how he’s doing. It’s a bit obvious. He’s thankful that Fenris didn’t bother asking, just jumped right to the point. 

“I am well. There has been no news or sight of Danarius.” Fenris picks up the cup in front of him with surprising skill. Hawke has seen him drink in the tavern, but mugs of ale are much different than small porcelain cups. 

It’s Mother’s fine china, some of the only nice things they own. Now that they’re rich, Mother has been a lot less stringent about when the set can be used. It feels a bit odd to be drinking out of small cups with flowers painted on the sides when they’re in a house with dirt floors and walls covered in mold, but Hawke supposes that one must get comfort out of the small things. Besides, they’ll probably be moving within the year.

 _The wonders of sudden and undeniable wealth,_ he thinks. 

“That’s good,” Hawke replies. Fenris lets out a noncommittal noise. For an escaped ex-slave attempting to stay that way, he doesn’t sound very pleased about not having to face his master. Hawke wants to know why but he doesn’t know if Fenris will answer or storm off. He knows that the last time Isabela made a joke about the matter, Fenris got huffy and sulked for the rest of the trip. 

It’s probably safer to stick to talking about Hawke’s life, but that’s the last thing he wants to do. He just sighs, drinking his tea and wondering where this conversation is going. 

“I… I apologize, you must have more important matters to attend to -- I should not --” Fenris stands, suddenly, setting his cup down and spilling a bit of tea. Hawke jumps to his feet in alarm. He’d rather sit in awkward silence with Fenris than without. “I will take my leave,” Fenris says as he turns to do just that.

“No, stay,” Hawke asks not a moment after. There’s a pause. Fenris stands, frozen almost in place. “It’s better to talk than to be alone,” Hawke admits. Almost in judgement, Trinket the mabari looks up and whines. “Ok, yes, you’re here but you aren’t able to talk to me. Not like another person.”

Fenris chuckles and sits back down. “You know, they say that the breed originated in Tevinter. They rebelled from the slave owners, decided they liked Ferelden better.” 

“I don’t know much about Tevinter, but I think anyone with sense would like Ferelden better,” Hawke replies. Fenris smiles a little and Hawke has to resist the urge to cheer. A smile and a chuckle in one conversation? It’s probably the best thing that’s happened to him since the Deep Roads. 

Then again, that’s a very low bar. 

“Do you miss anything about Tevinter?” As soon as Hawke says it, he wants to take the words back. Fenris seems to shutter off, expression going blank again as he looks at Hawke with painful nothingness in his eyes. Hawke winces, fidgeting a little with a loose thread on his shirt. “Sorry, I know -- you probably don’t have anything to miss. That was stupid of me to ask.” A moment passes. Two moments. Trinket shifts from his place on the floor. 

“The weather. Here it is always cold. In Tevinter, it rarely snows and the rain is seasonal. I cannot count the occasions in which I have been caught unaware in the rain here.” Fenris shakes his head. “There is no preparing for it.” 

“Really? You can’t tell?” Hawke is surprised. Then again, he grew up farming. Knowing the weather, being able to guess if there will be more rain or if it’s going to get too hot for the plants to continue to grow, is essential. It’s probably the second thing his father taught him, right after learning how to avoid burning the house down during a fit of uncontrolled emotion.

“I suppose it is a skill some have learned,” Fenris admits, “But it is one I never acquired. In Tevinter there was no use for it. And here I have not bothered to try.” 

“I could teach you,” Hawke offers before wincing. It sounds stupid aloud and he curses his impulsiveness. This is hardly the first time his mouth has gotten the better of him. “I mean, it’s not really a useful skill. It’s mostly fun to win bets. Oh, Varric, bet you five gold that it’s going to rain tomorrow.” Hawke shifted into his best Varric impersonation. “Why, Hawke, I’ll accept that bet because it’s sunny out and I’m a city dwarf, so I don’t know anything about the weather!” 

Fenris laughs again. Hawke decides that whatever happens in the next few months, it’s worth it to try to keep Fenris laughing. 

//

Months pass, then a whole year that soon turns into three. Fenris feels more on edge than before, somehow, though the only tension that has visibly grown is between the Qunari and the inhabitants of Kirkwall. Danarius has not shown himself or any of his mercenaries, making this the longest period Fenris has gone without being attacked. Well, without being attacked by his former master. 

He knows that he should be relieved. Happy. Maybe even a little hopeful that Danarius has given up, that the running and looking over his shoulder every second is coming to an end. But he cannot feel that way because something, deep inside, tells him that it isn’t true. This is just an illusion and it is only a matter of time before Danarius reappears. 

Fenris tells Hawke just as much, one day, while they chat in the mansion that falls apart around him. It’s quite strange, seeing the differences in Hawke. Compared to the first day they met, Hawke has put on weight and his eyes are clearer. He was never an unhealthy man, but living in Lowtown with little income means that food is scarce. Now, being a noble in Hightown means that he can spoil himself… and his friends. 

It’s really a surprise that Fenris has been able to keep up with the gifts of fresh food, old wine, and new trinkets to enhance his abilities in combat. 

“You do not need to spend so much coin on me,” Fenris said once. Hawke had given him a strange look, one that Fenris hadn’t been able to decipher, and then shrugged. 

“I like giving you things. Besides, I have too much coin of my own. I’m about to start giving it to Gamlem, that’s how desperate I am.” Hawke had adopted a sly smile and Fenris knew it was pointless to continue arguing. It wasn’t like the gifts were unappreciated, they were just… unusual.

Slaves were not given gifts. Property could not be given their own property. 

“Oh, Fenris, that’s a pretty ring. Did Hawke give it to you?” Isabela coos the next time they are traveling together, off on some mission in Darktown. Fenris nods, unsure of where the conversation is going. “It’s so pretty! It really matches your eyes. Wouldn’t you say, Varric?” 

“Eh? I mean, the Elf does have good eyes.” Varric glances between Fenris and Hawke before taking out a collection of folded papers and scribbling something on on. Not for the first time, Fenris wishes he could read. Fortunately, Isabela misses what he writes and whines at Varric to tell her. “I’ve got to keep some secrets, Rivani,” Varric replies with a chuckle. 

Later, while Fenris examines his sword for any damage, he hears Varric and Hawke talking. “You got him a ring worth --” 

“It’s just gold,” Hawke interrupts. “I have plenty of it now.” And that is definitely the truth, even if in that moment Fenris can sense that there’s more to it than what Hawke is saying. 

At first, Fenris found himself concerned that Hawke was only giving him such things because he’s still under the belief that they’re soulmates. But Fenris knows that Hawke is just generous like that. He has too much money and not enough company, brother dead and mother unable to fill that space no matter how many visitors she invites over. 

He buys all of them gifts and if his eyes linger on Fenris, decorated in rings and amulets, then no one comments on it. Not where Fenris can hear, at least. 

The rest of Hawke’s companions remain, unfortunately including the blood mage and the… _other_ mage. Fenris won’t turn them into the Templars no matter how much the two of them harass him, but that doesn’t seem to have gotten into Ander’s thick skull. Isabela, at least, and Varric provide good company in the form of card games, drinking partners, and casual conversations. They seem to understand that Fenris doesn’t always want to discuss serious matters. 

He appreciates their company and wonders if this is what it’s like to have friends. If this is what it’s like to be _normal._

Still, as the months pass Fenris finds himself pacing the empty halls of his stolen home more nights than not and he cannot go farther than a stride away from his sword without his chest tightening, his heart pounding as his fingers begin to shake. His every nerve is strung out, ready to snap at the slightest confrontation. He knows that Anders has been making snide comments to anyone who will listen. Even Isabela, who knows something is going on between him and Hawke but has yet to ask either of them about it, has been avoiding him lately. 

Maybe Fenris should be offended, but he isn’t. He can’t be. Not when some days he does feel more like a wild animal than a person.

He hates the sensation and on those days he tries to force himself to go on walks around Hightown. It doesn’t matter if people stare. All that matters is that he can look around and see color. Bright and vibrant and in shades and hues that he cannot describe no matter how hard he thinks about them. The merchants have stalls with fabric draped over the sides and they set out their goods so they shine in the sunlight. Little is hidden away and Fenris drinks in all the sights. 

The Hightown market is vastly different than anywhere he went in Tevinter and even years later, it’s a welcome contrast. Instead of attempting to outshine one another with shows of obedient slaves or magical goods spread out like a feast, in Kirkwall the merchants sell hard steel or fresh fruit. There are servants running to and from stalls, but nowhere does a whip crack. 

There’s no gold being exchanged for slaves, unless one wants to count the Blooming Rose. Fenris has checked; the people there are all there more or less willingly. At the very least, the madame does not truck with slavers. She’s a good woman for that. 

Fenris wanders the Hightown market with gold in his pocket and little in mind as to what to spend it on. He does not need new armor or a new weapon and, as he has told his companions-sort-of-friends many times, he will not spend a single copper on improving the mansion. It’s not the least habitable place he’s ever stayed. 

So much time has passed, Fenris hardly garners any strange looks from the Hightown citizens and merchants. He doesn’t cause trouble, not beyond the things that Hawke gets up to, and he always is polite when he wants to buy something. That’s a rare occasion in of itself. Fenris is hardly used to having money of his own to spend on whatever he wants, though he does like to splurge and buy apple tarts from the bakery around the corner. 

Bored, Fenris finds himself chatting with an arms dealer about the quality of his blades. This is easy. This is something Fenris has done before. He wishes, for a moment, that he could buy a gift for Hawke. It’s a foolish thought and he banishes it immediately, or at least he tries to. It comes creeping back and Fenris excuses himself from the conversation, hoping to find something better to distract himself with.

Fenris stops once more in front of a stall selling rings and necklaces and other pieces of jewelry. A man is there with his wife -- they’re soulmates, he can tell from the way their eyes are wide the way someone newly learning color looks -- and they’re looking at wedding rings. It makes Fenris feel a bit sick and he shakes his head.

That’s not for him. It would be foolish to think that it ever could be his. After all, his soulmate is Danarius and he will never go back. 

Some part of Fenris hopes that Danarius has given up. The rest of him knows that isn’t true. 

“What do you do when you stop running?” Fenris asks Hawke one day, the two of them sitting in a mansion that hasn’t been improved in three years. Isabela keeps nagging him about moving and so does Varric. Even Aveline in her own, quiet way thinks that Fenris must be a little mad to stay in such a place.

It’s complicated. Fenris isn’t even sure why he stays. 

Hawke thinks about the question. For once in his life, he doesn’t rush headfirst into something. It’s a little unnerving, to tell the truth. 

“You take a breath and look around.” A pause. “And start anew.” 

Fenris isn’t sure what that would look like. He wonders if that’s what he’s been doing. 

//

Hawke’s life is going well; there hasn’t been a near-death experience in almost three months, Anders is actually able to talk about something other than the plight of the mages, Merrill hasn’t gotten attacked by the Carta recently, and Isabela seems to be less inclined to aggravate Aveline at every possibility. Varric did say that he had a lead on Bartrand, but Hawke’s willing to let that lie until it becomes a problem. 

Mother is happier than Hawke thought she would be, after Carver’s death, though he hardly begrudges her that. It seems like her own loss of first her soulmate, then one child and then another, is soothed by reclaiming something familiar. Even with the way Gamlem has the audacity to come beg for coin, things are better. They aren’t just better, they’re good. 

There’s even something akin to real friendship growing between Hawke and Fenris. It’s been painful, really, waiting for him and some days Hawke has to stop himself from marching across Hightown and demand answers.

“He’s gone through a great deal, Hawke. Anyone can see that. Give him time and space. He will open up when he wants to,” Aveline said one day. Sometimes Hawke wonders if she’s pseudo-adopted him as her son. “Also, if you keep causing mischief at the docks, please try to keep it quiet. There’s only so many times I can…” She coughs. “Lose paperwork with your name on it.”

Aveline is a better friend than Hawke deserves, he thinks. Willing to fight next to him, willing to fight _with_ him… Somehow, Hawke has found a group of people just as wild as him and Aveline hasn’t locked them all up yet. When he mentions it to Varric, he nods and agrees. 

“Red is a good woman. She knows her job and does it better than nobles talk shit.” That’s probably the highest of compliments Varric can give a person. 

“I’m going to talk to Fenris, Mother,” Hawke calls out as he grabs his coat and double-checks that he doesn’t have anything leftover from dinner stuck in his beard. Earlier that day, Fenris had asked if Hawke could stop by that night. Hawke’s not sure what to expect. In three years, they haven’t mentioned being soulmates or even confirmed that they’re friends.

Maker, Hawke hopes that they’re friends. 

He makes the quick walk over and is a little surprised to see Fenris drinking. Not that Fenris doesn’t drink, but usually he keeps it within reasonable limits. But tonight there are at least half a dozen bottles of wine on the table in front of him, three of which have already been drained. Hawke hopes that Fenris has, at least, had something to eat. 

There’s a very real chance he hasn’t and Hawke makes a mental note to get Bodhan to drop off more food later. If Fenris is annoyed by the gifts, he hasn’t said anything so Hawke assumes he’s fine to continue giving him things. 

“Last bottle of the Agreggio,” Fenris says. There’s a small smile on his face. He doesn’t smile nearly enough and Hawke has taken to immediately returning any that he sees. “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” Of course, Hawke has to ask what the occasion is and he soon finds himself privy to details about Fenris’ history that he could never have guessed.

It’s almost like something out of one of Varric’s books, except it’s real and Hawke is torn between being horrified and being absolutely in awe of just how strong Fenris is. To have gone through so much, to not even remember most things in his life, and yet to come out the other end in one piece… 

There’s been plenty of moments where Hawke is in aware that his soulmate is a powerful person, but this is the first where he thinks that maybe Fenris is a much better person. Someone who deserves more than an apostate refugee. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Hawke says. It’s not nearly enough to encompass what he wants Fenris to know, but judging from the nod Fenris gives him, he thinks his message got across. “I appreciate that you’ve stayed. It is… it means a lot to me, knowing you are still here.” It has been a long time since Fenris’ debt has been cleared and Hawke has made it obvious that he can leave whenever he wants. 

He spent a great deal of time worried that one day he would wake up and Fenris would just be gone. It wasn’t until recently that Hawke felt a little reassured and even certain that, for whatever reasons, Fenris is going to stay. 

Hawke is not nearly self-absorbed to think that it’s because of him. But he can hope. 

“I like it here,” Fenris replied. “There… There is a great deal about it that I would miss.” Hawke doesn’t miss the way that Fenris’ eyes linger on him for a moment before flicking away. “I… You are a good man, Hawke. I know you are interested in me. So I must ask. Do you still believe we are soulmates?” 

“I never stopped,” Hawke replies immediately. He swallows. “I… I never understood why you don’t think we are.” 

For a moment, Hawke is certain that he’s overstepped and that Fenris is going to kick him out. A little bit of Hawke wouldn’t blame him. Talking about soulmates has always been on their list of subjects that he and his companions avoid. But Fenris sighs and shakes his head, seeming more tired than angry.

“It’s complicated. I would not bother you with the details. My problems do not need to be your problems.” 

“We’ve talked about this,” Hawke reminds him. “Your problems are mine.” Again, there’s a moment of silence. 

“My master… Danarius, he told me we were soulmates. That the ritual that gave me the lyrium markings, that wiped my memory, also removed my ability to see color.” It’s so horrifying, Hawke can’t find it in him to say anything. Fenris isn’t meeting his eyes. There’s shame in his face and also fear. As if Hawke will start laughing, admit that this has all been a joke. That Hawke will renounce any claim to being Fenris’ soulmate. 

In no universe is Hawke that cruel. 

“If we ever meet Danarius, please allow me the pleasure of watching you kill him,” Hawke spits, gritting his teeth. For the first time since he was a child, he can feel flames flickering up behind his fists and he tampers down on his magic harder than he has ever done before. Losing control now is the worst thing that could happen. “You -- Fenris. You know I would not lie to you about this. We’re soulmates.” 

“I -- Perhaps you should leave.” Hawke takes it back; that is the worst that could happen. Fenris doesn’t meet his gaze, doesn’t say anything else. “I know you believe we are soulmates,” Fenris says as Hawke heads for the door, “I do not know if we are. I… Please, understand that this is… difficult for me.” 

“It’s ok, Fenris,” Hawke lies. “You don’t owe me any answers.” Fenris doesn’t but that doesn’t stop Hawke from wanting them. 

Still, besides the lack of developments with his soulmate, Hawke’s life is going well. That’s how he knows he should have expected something to go horribly wrong. 

He’s bringing a small party to explore news of the Bone Pit being destroyed -- again -- when a group of humans step out from behind some cover. It takes Hawke a moment, but the robes aren’t entirely unfamiliar. They’re Tevinter.

“Hunters,” Fenris murmurs as he pulls out his sword. 

“Stop right there!” A stranger’s voice. Hawke looks up at the sandbank, the cold chill of the Wounded Coast cutting into his robes. There’s a group of four mages up there, weapons still undrawn but clearly ready for a fight. “You are in possession of stolen property. Back away from the slave and you’ll be spared,” a man shouts down. 

A rush of anger hits Hawke and he pulls his staff off his back and prepares to back Fenris up. “Fenris is not a slave!” For a moment, Fenris glances at him and Hawke can’t help but look back. He can’t tell what’s in Fenris’ eyes. There’s surprise, yes, but less because of what Hawke said and more because _why._ As if Hawke wouldn’t defend Fenris -- or any of his friends -- to the death. 

But then the moment passes and arrows are being shot, spells are being flung, and Fenris in the midst of it all is cutting his way through anyone in his path. Varric trades shots with archers while Isabela dances around the battle, seemingly disappearing only to reappear with her daggers deep in someone’s chest. Hawke summons up a fireball and relishes in its red flames, the way it catches the light and bends it. 

He shoots it at the top of the sandback and it explodes in dramatic fashion, setting fire to the mages up there. They start to scream as Fenris, who had gone round to sneak behind them, finishes them off. Hawke watches, the fighting winding down, as Fenris kicks the man who spoke earlier off the sandbank. 

“P-Please!” The man cowers, bloodied but still very much alive. Hawke and the others gather together, but none of them have any interest in stopping Fenris. Admittedly, Hawke isn’t sure what Fenris is going to do, only that Fenris has the right to handle this how he wishes. If Fenris wants to rip the hunter to pieces, Hawke won’t stop him. 

Fenris’ words about Danarius still ring in Hawke’s ears sometimes. He doesn’t know what kind of a horrible person would lie about soulmates, but whoever does that is not worth nug shit. 

“Where is he?” Fenris snarls, brands still glowing. The man claims he doesn’t know and Fenris bashes his head into the ground. “Where. Is. He?” Fenris asks again, ignoring the blood pouring down the hunter’s face.

“I don’t know!” The man moans, only to get his head thrown into the ground again. “H-Hadriana brought us. She’s at the holding caves north of the city. I can take you,” he says, gasping for air. There’s a moment. 

“No need. I know where you speak of.” The man continues to beg for his life but Fenris’ eyes just narrow. “You chose the wrong master.” He snaps the man’s neck. It’s painless and quick, but Hawke can tell that it still catches Varric and Isabela off-guard. They don’t know what Fenris has gone through. 

None of them except Hawke have any idea. 

Fenris turns back to the others, hands curled into fists. There’s flicks of blood on his gauntlets and on his chestplate, as well as a few on his face. Hawke’s own fingers twitch, wanting to wipe them off. He doesn’t. 

“I was a fool to think I was free. They’ll never let me be!” Fenris curses, brands illuminating before dimming again. Hawke doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but it takes only a little encouragement before Fenris explains. “If she’s here, it’s at his bidding. I knew he wouldn’t let this go!” 

_Danarius deluded you into thinking he’s your soulmate. He’s insane and needs to die. Anything that stops him from getting you back, I’ll do. If this woman is his apprentice, if she hurt you, I will kill her before she lays another hand on you._ The thoughts go through Hawke’s head before he can stop them. 

_He doesn’t need your help,_ a voice reminds him. Fenris has remained free for all these years without Hawke’s help. He can continue without it. _But he wants it._

And if Fenris wants something, if Fenris even hints at desiring something, Hawke has long since learned he’s helpless to deny him.

“Then let’s go,” Hawke says, meeting Fenris’ eyes for a moment. There’s shimmering anger there but there’s something else too. Gratitude. As if Fenris, even now, wasn’t sure if Hawke would still stand by him. That only strengthens Hawke’s resolve.

“She won’t get away with this.”


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a change. Sorry for the wait; hopefully the last chapter won't take as long.

The fire burns low in the hearth, the weak flames flickering against Fenris’ skin. He feels a chill go up his spine and he grits his teeth. This is why everyone always asks why he doesn’t move, why he remains in a decrepit mansion. Hawke is the only one who remains silent about it, but even that is only verbally. He continues to come almost every day, providing food and blankets and supplies regardless of Fenris’ protests. Fenris has never asked for help before Hawke. Now, it seems like he needs not ask. It is just provided. He doesn’t know how that makes him feel. 

Fenris suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of unease. The shadows loom too close, the cold bites too hard, and he cannot stay here any longer. He grabs his sword, adjusts the straps on his armor, and runs out the door without hesitation. It isn’t snowing, thank the Maker, but it will soon. The clouds cover the moon and even he can barely see in the night. Hightown is no better than his mansion. It’s just a different kind of cold. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he finds himself walking the familiar route to Hawke’s mansion. Despite what happened almost three years ago, Hawke has barely changed how he interacts with Fenris. 

It’s entirely Fenris’ fault, the gulf that exists between them. Hawke is too polite, too kind, too sympathetic and understanding to let it go too far. He is teaching Fenris how to read, tells Anders off whenever the mage begins to harass Fenris on a mission. Hawke drags Fenris out to drinks and to card games and loans him gold when Fenris loses spectacularly against Varric. 

Hawke is everything Fenris imagines he would want in a soulmate and he thinks -- maybe, perhaps, in the right world -- they could be. When Fenris is near Hawke, he feels like something is clutching his heart and squeezing. 

Once, a mistimed fireball almost set him on fire. Sometimes Fenris thinks that it was almost more preferable to the sensation of standing next to Hawke when the man is smiling. 

He hesitates in front of Hawke’s door. His hand hovers next to the wood. How late is it? Will this be the first time Hawke sends him away? 

Fenris knocks. A moment passes. It’s late. He doesn’t think Bodhan will be up but maybe Hawke is? He knows that Hawke doesn’t sleep well. It’s obvious in the dark circles that have formed under his eyes, the fact that he is the first to arrive at the Hanged Man and the last to leave. Well, no, that’s not true. 

Most nights, Hawke leaves when Fenris leaves. It’s like he feels the need to escort Fenris home, even though Fenris never drinks as much and can handle himself just as well.

The door swings open. It’s not surprising to see Hawke in his thick red robe, a weak smile on his face.

“Hello, Fen. What are you doing here?” He asks. It doesn’t look like he was sleeping. Fenris is immediately reminded of the night almost three years ago. He left then. He keeps leaving. He doesn’t know why Hawke lets him come back. Fenris doesn’t think he deserves it. 

No, he knows he doesn’t. But Hawke is a better person. 

“I…” Fenris has no excuse. There’s a pitiful _I needed to see you_ that dies in his throat and something else that his heart clings to, won’t form into words because that’s risking everything. 

He swallows and motions towards the mansion. Hawke steps out of the doorway and lets Fenris enter. For a moment, Fenris thinks he’s going to reach out. But the hand never extends and Fenris convinces himself that he’s only seeing things.

“You look cold.” Hawke frowns and leads Fenris into the front room. There’s a dying fire in the hearth and Trinket looks up at the two people who walk in and disturb his sleep. “Here.” Hawke pulls a blanket from a chair and his fingers twitch. This time Fenris knows they do. He holds still as Hawke steps forward and drapes the blanket over his shoulders. 

“Hawke… I…” Fenris clutches the blanket. It smells like Hawke. He knows if he asks for it, Hawke will give it to him. But Fenris has plenty of gold. He doesn’t need charity. Not anymore. But yet Hawke continues to provide it. “I could not sleep.” 

“I don’t sleep most nights,” Hawke admits with a shrug. He swallows, ducking his head. His hair is getting long. The bangs cover his eyes. “There’s a lot on my mind.” That’s an understatement. Eventually the conflict between mages and Templars will come to a head. 

There’s no question of where Hawke will stand. He is unabashedly supportive of Orsino and the other mages, no matter how many blood mages and abominations appear. Fenris should hate him. He doesn’t. 

“My apologies. I can -- I can --” Fenris turns to leave, suddenly feeling even more foolish for coming. 

“No, wait --” Hawke reaches out to grab him, stops inches away. “Fenris. You can stay.” Those three words. So simple. They make everything worse. 

Fenris can make out the flecks of gold in Hawke’s eyes. He can see the reds and oranges in the fire. He knows that the robe is red with a silver trim. He knows that Anders’ robes are a disgusting brown and Isabela wears a blue bandana. The Arishok bled red. Most people do. Demons, spiders -- they bleed black. 

Fenris knows this and it scares him because he didn’t know this before. He didn’t know color before he met Hawke.

The truth is, Hawke is his soulmate and that terrifies him. 

“I… Do you have a room for me?” Fenris asks. The look that Hawke gives him is too open, too vulnerable. Fenris has to look away.

Hawke is his soulmate and Hawke has never asked for anything more than Fenris has been willing to give. Except. Except.

Except for one night. _That_ night. It lingers between them and sometimes Fenris can see the questions forming, stirring behind Hawke’s eyes. But Hawke never asks. He never pushes. He knows that Fenris thought that Danarius was his soulmate. He knows Fenris is still struggling with what _soulmate_ even means. He knows that if he wants anything more than friendship, he will have to wait.

“There’s always room for you here.” Hawke coughs. Adopts a wry grin. “My mansion is bigger than yours, you know. I could fit the entire Carta here and you wouldn’t even know they lived here!” 

“Not until they took off with the silverware and family heirlooms,” Fenris deadpans. Hawke laughs. It’s a good laugh. 

Fenris likes it when Hawke laughs. 

“Do you need me to show you where the room is?” Hawke asks. 

“No.” Fenris doesn’t know if he’ll sleep any better in Hawke’s mansion. He doesn’t know if he wants to sleep. “Could… Could we read? I do not think I can sleep tonight.” Something passes over Hawke’s face. It disappears before Fenris can tell what he’s feeling. 

“Of course.” Hawke walks off to the library, chattering all the while. “I think Varric left a copy of his latest chapter somewhere, but if you want to read something of actual quality I have Anders’ manifesto somewhere… Just kidding,” Hawke adds quickly, seeing Fenris grit his teeth. “I mean, I’m sure he’s stuffed it into all the bookshelves but I won’t make you read it if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t.”

Hawke turns to face Fenris and smiles. “Do you want to try reading the book?” Fenris could ask for clarification, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to. He knows exactly what Hawke is talking about. 

The only reason Hawke knows Fenris can’t read is because he gifted him _The Book of Shartan_. It remains too difficult for Fenris to comprehend but, sometimes, he’ll open it and try to muddle through it anyway. Each time, a few more words reveal themselves. It’s a puzzle, slow to be solved, but he itches for the challenge nonetheless. 

Whenever they read together -- read an actual book, not try to write or go through pages and pages of words -- Fenris sits in Hawke’s massive armchair and Hawke pulls a smaller chair next to it so he can lean over and breathe hints and answers into Fenris’ ear. It’s as intimdate as they’ve gotten since _that night._

Fenris doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods. He needs that physical presence even if he can’t say it. He doesn’t have to. Hawke knows. 

“Hawke --” Fenris calls out as he stands there, watching Hawke go get the smaller chair. “You. You do not need to get that.” He earns himself a confused looked. “We. The chair is big enough for us both.” It is, but only if Fenris is in Hawke’s lap or vice versa. Hawke hesitates, but he points that out. “I know. You may sit and I can sit on you.” Fenris ducks his head, a thin smile appearing. “I will do my best not to injure you with my armor.” There’s a moment. A tender moment where Fenris fears that Hawke will deny him. 

This is not something friends do, after all. It is something lovers, soulmates, do. It is blurring the boundaries that Fenris has worked so hard to put in place. But it is also his choice, his decision to do this. 

Hawke nods. 

It’s uncomfortable at first and Fenris thinks he kicks Hawke in the shin at least once, but they make it work. Fenris feels small and vulnerable -- both normal occurrences -- in Hawke’s lap. But he also feels comfortable, something that is rare. The sensation is familiar the way he imagines a childhood memory might be for others. 

He feels comfortable and he feels safe and he does not remember the last time he felt safe. 

He doesn’t have a home, but he imagines this is what it feels like.


End file.
